


After Dark

by demizorua



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insomnia, M/M, New Dangan Ronpa V3 Spoilers, Post-New Dangan Ronpa V3, also it's kinda unorganized thoughts on purpose?, since insomnia is a bitch, the ships are mostly implied, this is a bit of a vent type thing, to kinda reflect saihara's state of mind. idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 12:49:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16018262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demizorua/pseuds/demizorua
Summary: The nights were the hardest.





	After Dark

The nights were the hardest.

Ever since the fourth… incident, Saihara had stopped sleeping. Without the uninterrupted void the sleeping pills provided him, he found himself grappling with the bedsheets, his mind occupied by tumultuous thoughts. After a few nights of tossing and turning, he stopped going to bed altogether. Better to avoid interrupting the little sleep Yumeno and Harukawa could already obtain.

He hated being idle. During the day it was easy: just work the memories into oblivion through extra shifts and odd jobs. At night, however, there were less options. Law forbade him from taking another shift, lest the employer get in trouble. He couldn't let himself be still or his mind would start up again, he had to keep going, avoiding it. That's why he regrets the sleeping pills; they brought him twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep with none of the pain involved getting there.

At first he'd take walks, aimlessly wandering the streets for hours. That had worked until he collapsed from exertion, coming to in the ER hours later. Apparently he'd pushed himself too hard, given that he hardly ate these days. Just like Momota did, he'd thought, and that was the end of it. But, the next time he went out, his mind was flooded with thoughts of Momota, of how he was so adamant to train every night, under the stars- the fake stars. How he was always there for him, supporting him, no matter what. Of Momota’s smile, Momota’s voice, the way he never fully wore his jacket and the way he'd flash a grin and thumbs up, even if he was hurt, he was dying, _he was dead, Momota was dead-_

He didn't go out at night.

He tried going online, using the internet to block out the thoughts that made him want to tear his skin off. Aimlessly watching animal videos and conspiracy theories into the early hours. If he's honest, that was a bad idea from the start. It was only a matter of time before the familiar notes faded in, used in the background of some analysis of serial killers. From the first chord he was choking, unable to breathe. Like Akamatsu felt, when she was strung up on that grand piano. He gasped desperately, choking on his own mistakes, the bitter regrets cascading down his throat as he cried. His tears were hot as they ran down his face, but his fingers were cold as they ran down his arms, drawing blood. Hot hot hot, cold cold cold. Hot like the fire from Momota's rocket, cold like the bodies of all his friends, snuffed out candles, hot like the light as Kiibo left him alone, cold like the shot put ball, a single pink thread left behind.

Harukawa found him sniffling on the couch hours later, humming to himself.

The therapist told him to try drawing, writing, music, creating. Drawing was out of the question, _her body lying in a pool of red_ , and he couldn't bring himself to go near anything musical, _ladies and gentlemen, we've got a very special performance today!_. Cooking wasn't an option: the fire was too tempting. Writing forced him to think, and that's exactly what he wanted to avoid. Even reading wasn't helpful. After all, when your entire existence is fake, fiction loses its appeal. Noticing how his hands always twitched for something to do, how his legs were restless for exertion, he decided to try exercise.

This time, it started off bad. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, to be fair. One push-up in and tears were already streaming down his face. He kept going, though, determined to push through. He'd made a promise to Momota, agreed that he'd train every night. Even if they were fake, their feelings were real, and Momota's smile was _real_. To him.

It worked. For the first time in months, he fell asleep easily without passing out on the ground. His thoughts were quiet as he laid beside Yumeno, his demons having left him for the night. It was nice, being able to look at the ceiling and see only his own eyelids slowly drooping, to not be haunted by the ghosts of good intentions.

The next day, the voices were back. They were there, but he paid them no mind. When Harukawa checked his arm and smiled the next day, he smiled back, noticing her clear eyes and empty pockets, rather than commenting on her ashy breath. When Yumeno congratulated him on sleeping well, he complimented her growing hair, rather than point out the torn knuckles and empty stomach. He fought back against the urge to be pessimistic, instead thinking of his promises.

Team Danganronpa said it was impossible for them to live a normal life. For the longest time, he was convinced they were right, but now he wasn't so sure.

Maybe it was possible.

Maybe they could make it so.

**Author's Note:**

> _I wrote this while I couldn't sleep djhfjdjjsjf_


End file.
